"Good-night." So, in this hasty manner, in the midst of a crowd, they parted. She moved away with Miss Westbrook, already rehearsing in her mind what she should say to him to-morrow when her head did not ache, when they were alone. There was so much to say and they had only had the fewest words together. She must write to Selina, too. What could she say there? Should she get him to write? And Miss Trefusis--he was fixed on that match. Ah, an ordinary gentleman, indeed! But her heart was crying out after him as she framed the sentences she would use to-morrow--to-morrow. My lord left the music-room and the building, avoiding the crowds desirous of his company, and walked up the street towards the river where he had left his chair. Reaching it, from the white satin seat he took a bunch of white roses faded and drooping. Then he dismissed the men, bidding them go home. Since his arrival in town that morning he had been playing with the idea of fulfilling Selina Boyle's strange request; he had meant to carry it out before the flowers should be utterly dead, and this that Susannah had told him of his wife's confession affected his wilful mood, moved him and made him whimsically desirous to lay Selina's roses on her tomb. There was a cynical piquancy in the situation that pleased him. His relations with my lady had been so devoid of romance or sentiment, so devoid of anything save a final tragic horror, that this touch between mockery and bitterness appealed to my lord's fantastical mind. She had tried to be the instrument of his death; she had taken her own life in despair at the ill-success of her desperate act; she had lain for nine months in her grave, and no one had dropped a flower on her tomb nor given her one regret. And now he, having learnt the truth, and on the eve of his second marriage, came to offer her memory roses from the garden of Selina Boyle! My lord smiled, and drew his mantle closer round him, for the May night was chill, though clear and fair; the stars were few and faint and the moon high overhead. My lord sang a little to himself. As he passed St. Martin's-in-the-Fields the clock struck one. He glanced up at the steeple in surprise; he had not thought it so late. He quickened his pace. He must write to Marius to-night. Curious that Honoria Pryse should find a conscience, and how foolish of him not to guess the truth before! It seemed so obvious now that my lady--He glanced down at the roses in his hand, and laughed. Meeting no one in the dreary ill-lit streets, he reached St. Ann's, Soho, where the Countess was buried; and then, for the first time, remembered that the church was locked and that he had no means of entry. Vexed at being thwarted, he crossed the churchyard and tried, despite his own reason, the heavy door. The cold iron ring of the handle rattled uselessly in his hand; some leaves fluttered from Selina's roses on to the steps.